


Bite

by businessghost



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Drug Abuse, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, No Spoilers, Pre-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, idk not much romance actually, just slight undertones of Kavinsky/Ronan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 05:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5235299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/businessghost/pseuds/businessghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember when Kavinsky was chatting with Ronan and said he'd seen him do coke before? Yeah, me too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bite

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Heaving bass pumped all around Ronan. His vision swam, the product of too much expensive liquor in his system. He could feel unconsciousness pressing in behind his eyelids, but that was not an option. Not here, in Joseph Kavinsky’s vinyl mansion. Luckily, Kavinsky knew how to keep anybody up.

Ronan pushed himself forcefully off the wall where he’d been leaning. He stumbled a bit, but not enough that any of the other party-goers would notice. The masses were completely wrecked. They probably couldn’t tell Ronan from a hat rack.

Now, mused Ronan, hunched over and clutching his beer with both hands, how to find Kavinsky. He tilted his head to the side, listening for the direction the most screams were coming from. Downstairs. The basement. He made his way there, the addled dancers parting around him, as if they could sense his urgency.

He found the king of the castle lounging on one of his home-theatre seats. He had one impossibly thin leg thrown over the arm, and his eyes weren’t as glassy as those of his posse, who were clustered around him. Prokopenko was lazily focused on Kavinsky, but his gaze shifted as Ronan approached. Silently, he tugged at the leg of Kavinsky’s pants. Kavinsky looked at Ronan, and a falsely sincere smile spread across his face. He gestured invitingly, sloshing beer out of the bottle held loosely between his fingers as he did.

“At last” he dictated, “Mr. _Dick_ has arrived. Where’s the Missus, Lynch?”

“Hey” shrugged Ronan, “I can’t have Gansey up my ass all the time, K.”

Kavinsky nodded slowly, his heavy-lidded eyes sparking with dangerous intent. “Enjoying the party?”

Ronan yawned, “Oh, I dunno. It’s getting a little stale if you ask me, Joey. I might just have to bail before I start snoring.”

Kavinsky took a long pull of his beer. “Want a little wakeup call, dream boat?”

For a moment, Ronan considered this. Drinking was one thing. Fighting, street racing, they were all conscious choices. Should he really be toying with something that could take away his free will? He could end up like Kavinsky’s mother, or Kavinsky himself.

Kavinsky slid fluidly off the seat, slinking up to Ronan. His bony chest was nearly touching Ronan’s. He puckered his thin lips, sallow cheeks puffing with boozy air that he blew directly at Ronan. “Hay, faggot. You listening? You wanna do a line? Or are you gonna run back to your homemaker?”

Lynch rolled his eyes, splaying his fingers out over Kavinsky’s torso and pushing him back gently. “Sure. You wanna go off this cliff together, Louise?”

Kavinsky cackled, pulling out a bag containing half an 8-ball of coke from his back pocket. “I don’t need it.” He shot Ronan a smirk over his shoulder as he led him out of the theatre, “But I’ll hold your hand and go too, Lynch.”

His entourage, directed by Prokopenko, marched behind them, following the boys out into Kavinsky’s garage. There sat Kavinsky’s white Mitsubishi. The crude knife graphic plastered on its side, reminded Ronan of Kavinsky, in a way. It was sharp and threatening, but it was also peeling slightly away from the car, like it would lose its grip any minute. And that was exactly how Kavinsky looked as he poured the drugs onto his hood, lining up the fine powder into two straight rows.

He flourished a hand toward the car, inviting Ronan to step up beside him. Ronan could feel his heart hammering his ribs. _Was he really-?_ Kavinsky coughed meaningfully, breaking off Ronan’s train of thought.

“What, Lynch? Do I gotta give you step-by-step instructions?”

Ronan didn’t respond, but he could feel the tips of his ears get warm, betraying him. He tried to sneer off his embarrassment, but Kavisnky, that fucking leech, latched on to his weakness right away.

“Oh! Oh oh oh! Well, I should’ve known I’d be your first, Ronan.” He addressed his entourage, “Boys! We got virgin here.” The boys pouted mockingly at Ronan, affecting pathetic whimpers. Kavinsky turned to look at him, his heavy reptilian eyes opened wide in facetious sympathy. “Do you need me to give you directions? Should I demonstrate?”

Ronan settled back on his heels, his arms crossed protectively over his chest. “Weren’t you going to anyway, Commie?”

Kavinsky laughed again, lowering himself down so that his cheek nearly touched the cold alloy of the Mitsubishi. And then, with the practiced movements of a pundit, he snorted the line. He stepped away jerkily, shaking his head rapidly and pinching his nose tightly. “I’ve got a few minutes until I fall off, Lynch. Why don’t you join me?”

Ronan lowered himself down as well. He pressed one nostril shut and breathed in as forcefully as he could, the way it had always looked.

The powder flew into his nose, stinging his sensitive skin as it sailed past, collecting in the back of his nasal passage and coating his throat. He coughed hard, his eyes welling with tears, as the coke turned to slightly sweet sludge in his mouth.

Kavinsky and crew burst out laughing at him. Joseph’s limbs shook violently, and tears filled his own eyes. He tried to gasp out a comment, but each time the hilarity of the situation seemed to overtake him, wracking him again with mirth.

Finally the rambunctious cries died down, and Ronan managed to get his spluttering under control.

Breathing out deeply to master himself, Kavinsky spoke, “You’re not supposed to swallow it, big shot. Maybe just try sniffing it into your nose next time.”

Ronan swiped at his running nose, looking angrily at the Bulgarian boy. “Fine. Line some more up, will you? I’m still not awake.”

Ronan didn’t know what his tolerance for hard drugs was, but he hoped it was a strong as his tolerance for drinking. This time, as Kavinsky suggested, he sniffed more gently, and pressed a finger to the side of his nose, forcing more of his membranes into contact with the stimulant.

This time, he knew he had done it right. Kavinsky looked at him approvingly, though he could see that he was starting to drift away.

Ronan prayed to his merciless god that he could stay awake for the rest of the night. And as he felt the rush overtake him, he heard a chime from his damned cell phone. He plucked it out of his pocket with two fingers, as if having to interact with it were the worst thing he had done that night. He unlocked it, and as much as he wished, the message there was not a hallucination.

 _“Ronan. I’m outside of Joseph’s house.”_ Read the message.

Unbelievable. Richard Campbell Gansey III had come just in time to deliver a rousing lecture.


End file.
